


The Cold that Kills

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred knows best, Batfamily Feels, Best Friends, Bruce Needs a Hug, Common Cold, Fluff, Gen, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, It's Raining All the Time in Gotham, Minor Injuries, bruce needs a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 07:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16091120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Batman faces one of his greatest enemies: The Common Cold. This Halloween the great Bat is no match for the sniffles, no matter that he has work to do. Or that he has everyone from Alfred, to Dick, to Clark telling him to take it easy. The Batman does not rest!





	The Cold that Kills

**Author's Note:**

> Some silly fluff about our favorite B-man struggling with a cold over Halloween. I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this story.   
> Enjoy!

**October 30 th, 2020**

                It had been raining for three days straight and Andy for Gotham News Now on channel eight forecasted the low-pressure storm to remain for another week.

                Torrential downpour covered the city in glossy waves. Lines and angles were blurred, smog drowned with no pity and the crime levels sank. Gotham appeared sleepy, wantonly dazzled by the steady deluge and buried beneath a heavy covering of thick sooty clouds for blankets.

                Batman was running. Breaths measured, heart rate carefully kept in check as he darted over rooftops and grappled between buildings. The sound of rubber soled boots squished in gravel and over slippery cement was hardly audible. The black folds of the cape billowed under the fingers of a hard-easterly wind, berating the skyscrapers’ reaching points.

                The fact that his nose was clogged to the point he was forced to breathe through his mouth alone appeared to have no affect on his stamina. The wet air didn’t make his lungs ache either, or at least not too badly. And though Batman wondered if he shouldn’t have given in and taken that Dayquil PennyOne had been trying to stuff down his throat before leaving, his pesky little cold wasn’t at the forefront of his mind.

                It was hardly even a blip past the focus of his thoughts. 

                Not every criminal was lulled into peace by the storms.

                The Riddler had been playing games again and Batman, itchy from the lack of action he’d been seeing on the streets, had answered. He was following a clue, rushing through icy needles of rain to the next location where he imagined this sick game would come to a mortal conclusion. Riddler said he had hostages. He claimed they were in danger.

                That after the sixteen minutes remaining if Batman couldn’t solve the final clue, he’d mercilessly kill them.

By what means, Riddler had not said and that much had been telling to the Bat. He questioned the validity of his threats, when the man didn’t appear to have an endgame clearly written out. Riddler was after all, a man who enjoyed the game far more than the gore. He liked to have someone who could keep up with his tricks, but he wasn’t always the one pulling the trigger when the chips were down.

                It was perhaps why Batman felt so calm after spending the last six hours running himself weary through the slums of Gotham. Why he was rushing headlong into a possible ambush. Because he felt he could handle whatever the Riddler had thought up.

                Though the possibility of Riddler working with someone more lethal, gave him pause.

                The fact that he’d not gotten a good night sleep in days had no bearing on his response to the situation. It hadn’t slowed his natural inclination for a mystery or stunted his harshly crafted reflexes. No, those felt fine. They felt—bitterly strong.

                Despite the fact, that he sounded like a wheezing old man if anyone bothered to listen too closely when he paused for a breath.

                He swung in a wide arc over the Gotham Public Librarys’ downtown branch and landed softly onto the roof. If it were possible, the heavy slap of rain ticked up a notch and a low growl of thunder rumbled pithily in reply.

                There could be no better weather in Gotham the day before Halloween.

                Batman crept to the row of skylights nearest a large rooftop air conditioner and dropped to his haunches to peer down through the thick glass. There was scant lighting within, just the touch of night-time security lights delicately showcasing a singular guard who’d fallen asleep.

                It was obvious there were no current threats within.

                Nygma’s hostages were then likely fictitious. Unless Batman had gotten the final location incorrect.

                “Batman, congratulations.”

                Batman stiffened, rolling away from the glass to get distance from the sound of the automated voice that suddenly whirred from the rooftop. It was scratchy and fuzzed as if coming through a poor radio frequency.

                “Yes, I fibbed. A little.”

                Batman frowned, carefully examining the large black box that sat under the roof’s awning by the air conditioner. There was a small camera, but no screen beside an equally small speaker aimed towards the sky.

                “Riddler. There are no hostages.”

                “Well,” there was a clearing throat then, “No. But what did you expect? I needed you to follow the clues and you wouldn’t have if you didn’t think there was blood at stake.”

                “Why?”

                “Why what?”

                “Why did you want me to follow the clues here?” Batman didn’t dare look away from the box, though his right hand was already fisted around a batarang and his left was resting comfortably on top of the butt of his grapple.

                “Because I wanted to wish you a Happy Halloween. From me to you.”

                Batman grunted, scowling down at the box, fingers tightening viciously on the serrated edge of the batarang.

                “Riddler, I—”

                With a delicate click, the box started smoking and Batman jerked back, taking several steps to distance himself from the clouds of gray. But nothing else happened. The box caved in on itself and the trail he’d been following for the greater part of the night, had suddenly come up cold.

                What the hell had all of this been for?

Even the Riddler had purpose to his actions. It wasn’t like him to force the Batman on a wild goose chase. And it certainly wasn’t like the man to appear—lackadaisical about using his riddles for a personal motive.

                _Happy Halloween. From me to you._

Batman growled, spun on his boot, then left the destroyed box on the roof, firing his grapple into the nearest building. He sailed over the darkly shrouded streets, pushing himself hard out of frustration and agitation. He didn’t like his time wasted. He liked it even less when it was the day before Halloween and he’d faced down a very angry butler who’d insisted he not leave the manor, to be out on the streets.

                He’d have to come back for the box. There _had_ to be some sort of Easter egg that Nygma hid within it. But it was too big to carry and he didn’t want to wait for the Batwing. It was late, nearing sunrise and even though the rain would keep daylight at bay for sometime yet, he wanted to be home.

                The chill burrowing into Gotham had burrowed into him. And he needed a warm bed with a couple fingers of whiskey to bring back some heat to his limbs. He’d tackle the Riddler’s puzzling behavior in the morning.

                Batman had just reached the ally where he’d parked the Batmobile when his grapple line gave out. The mechanism in the retraction port hesitated, skipped, then went abruptly and sickeningly loose. He free-fell for the first hundred feet.

                Then he was rolling, reaching for the backup gun on his low back, scrabbling with wet gloves to get his fingers around the handle. He managed to shoot it twenty feet from the ground and the pressure in his arm from the abrupt stop jerked the shoulder clean out of socket.

                He gave a strangled cry, barely suppressing the noise then fell the rest of the way at a considerably slower pace. But still, twenty feet was enough to make the impact—painful.

                Legs crumpling beneath his weight, he hit his right hip hard enough to make him moan against the nearby dumpster and jarred his teeth down onto his tongue. Laying on the ground, sipping bits of air into his lungs through carefully measured breaths, Batman could taste blood. He could feel numb tingling in the fingers of the hand he’d hobbled from the dislocation. His hip throbbed like a sore tooth, making it nearly impossible to stand upright.

                But the Batmobile was at his back. He’d at least fallen by his car. But of all the ridiculous, annoying, stupid things to happen…

                “PennyOne. Send assistance to my location.”

                _“Are you injured?”_

“Enough.”

                _“Nightwing is in the vicinity and will be at your location within four minutes.”_

“Good.”

                Nothing else was said. And nothing really needed to be said. Batman could hear the reproach without seeing the old man’s face. He could _feel_ the disapproval through the line as if PennyOne was standing over him with a quirked brow and a gusty sigh.

                Not even a full four minutes later, Nightwing was landing at his side, the soft hush of boots grinding on wet sludge.

                “What happened B?”

                Batman grunted in response, letting the younger man help him to his feet. Fire raced up his hip and into his side. He couldn’t lift the dislocated arm any higher than a couple of inches. It hung limply between them and was not addressed as Nightwing helped him into the car. When they hit the highway and the rumble of the tires was damn near putting him to sleep, Dick finally spoke again.

                And it _was_ Dick now. He’d taken off the domino and was frowning over the steering wheel at the road.

                “Alfred said you’re sick.”

                “I’m hardly indisposed.”

                Dick lifted a brow and Batman tugged off the cowl revealing sweaty hair and a pale face. He knew he looked like death warmed over, but he didn’t particularly care.

                “You should have stayed home.”

                “There was an equipment malfunction.”

                Dick didn’t refute that fact, but the silence fell heavy again between the two of them. When they reached the cave and parked, Bruce was already trying to get out. His hip and arm made the movements awkward, but he managed to get out without toppling over and he counted that as a win.

                Alfred was already waiting for them.

                “Master Bruce,” he chided with eyes wide as he took in the smeared blood Bruce had missed on his chin and the sagging arm. “What have you done to yourself?”

                “It’s nothing,” Bruce tried, but his voice came out nasally and his throat was feeling raw. He could use a glass of water. Or whisky. And sleep. He could really use some sleep.

                “Equipment malfunction,” Dick murmured at his side, stepping around Bruce to strip from the suit on the way to the showers.

                “Dick,” Bruce stopped him, “I need you to head back out and get something for me. Riddler left a box on the roof of the Gotham Library. Downtown branch. I couldn’t bring it with me.”

                “OK. Only after I help Alf get you cleaned up and into bed. And—” he paused to give Bruce a hard look, “You let him dope you up with cold meds. You sound terrible.”

                There was a silent vicious battle of gazes for several moments.

                Bruce finally rolled his eyes, “Fine.”

                He didn’t stop Alfred from mothering or worrying. He dutifully showered, sat through an explicitly painful retraction for his shoulder, then took a handful of pills without even looking at what he was swallowing. He was passed out before his head even hit the pillow.

 

**October 31 st, 2020**

                Ghosts. Goblins. Ghouls. Oh my.

                Bruce pasted on another plastic smile and willed himself to sip on the fizzy cranberry mixer he’d asked the bartender to make him. He’d steered clear of the punch bowl which was heavily spiked with vodka. As high as he was on cold meds, he didn’t need to make matters worse than they already were.

                He was a flagging ship, sputtering its dying breaths into a crowd of Gothamite elites dressed to the nines in gaudy costumes that made his dizzy head even dizzier. The colors were bright and clashing. The smell of colognes, perfumes, and sweat so thick in the room that Bruce found himself flushed and sick to his stomach as he tried not to sink into the wall and hide.

                He was Brucie Wayne here. He was—brainless, drunken, floozy Brucie who enjoyed this party more than anything. This was his annual Wayne Memorial Halloween fundraiser and it was the highlight of the fall season. Everyone who was anyone came to these events. Press, like flies on a rotting carcass mingled through the costumed rich and begged off quotes or bits of gossip.

                Drinks were tossed back and one-nights stands arranged with aplomb. Anything went at the Wayne Halloween Fundraiser. After all, he knew how to throw one hell of a party.

                Bruce almost didn’t notice the slouching too-big reporter wearing that dopey smile before he was clapped hard on the back. He sloshed cranberry onto his knuckles and glowered at the man.

                “Kent. What a surprise?”

                “You did invite me, Mister Wayne.”

                Those familiar blue eyes danced with mirth and Bruce rolled his own. So, he’d been told. Alfred was a traitor.

                “What can I do for you? I already gave what’s-her-name a quote. Though I can’t say I remember what I said.”

                Clark smiled, benign and knowing before wrapping a thick arm over Bruce’s shoulders. The weight of that arm should have been not have been so damn staggering, but it was. “I could use some air. I brought a couple cigars, care to join me on the balcony?”

                “Sure,” Bruce offered a wry smile, ignoring how stupid he sounded with his stuffy nose plugging everything up, “Why not?”

                They pushed through the throng of people and only got stopped a couple of times. Brucie laughed over wandering hands, kissed a few smooth cheeks that wore too much blush or were thickly covered in costume makeup. Then Clark was dragging him out onto the balcony and fresh drizzling air swallowed them whole.

                “It’s still raining,” Bruce mused, pushing both hands through his hair with only the slightest twinge from his shoulder. His hip still hurt, and it made it difficult to walk without a limp, but he’d managed. As for the cold…

                “You look miserable.”

                “I’m not.”

                “Really?” Clark asked, mouth tipping.

                “Fine. I’m miserable. Happy?”

                “No. But I am enjoying that stuffy growly voice. Especially with your costume.”

                Bruce looked down at his costume and blinked. He was dressed like a werewolf. He didn’t see how a clearly sick and preposterous voice could possibly aid such things. “That’s ridiculous.”

                Clark shrugged, “So is going out on patrol when you’re obviously sick.”

                “Water under the bridge.”

                “Alfred told me you aren’t sleeping well.”

                “I’m sick. That’s expected.”

                “Before you were sick. He said you’ve been up all hours. Another insomniac phase?”

                Bruce pressed his back into the building and let his eyes slip closed. The sprinkle of rain was slowly increasing, and he could feel it wetting his feverish brow and neck. It felt heavenly.

                “Yes.”

                Clark moved to his side and if Bruce’s eyes were open he would swear he’d see the man worrying his bottom lip as he frowned darkly at him behind those thick glasses. “Bruce, you need to take better care of yourself.”

                “Relax, Kansas. It’s just a cold. I’ll be over it in a day or two.”

                “Not with you running around Gotham.”

                Bruce peeled open one eye and scowled, “Batman doesn’t take sick days.”

                “Bruce does.”

                He grunted in reply and ignored Clark’s presence until he felt the wet seeping into his undershirt. He needed to get dry or he really was going to make matters worse. But this break, this little pause, had been worth it.

                “Thanks Clark,” Bruce rasped past the dryness in his throat, “I needed this.”

                Clark frowned, “You need to go home. Let me fly you.”

                “No. I’ve got to put in another hour. Then I’ve got patrol.”

                “Bruce—”

                “It’s Halloween.”

                “And it’s been raining for days. There’s flooding in the city. Crime has been at an all time low. You can let the GCPD handle it.”

                “Riddler—”

                “I heard about Riddler and the box. Dick is already working on reverse engineering whatever he put into it.”

                Bruce opened his mouth to say something else, to come up with another reason why he should be rushing around Gotham keeping everything together. But Gotham was quiet now. Like she’d fallen asleep with the aid of the heavy rains and was basking beneath the heavens.

                “Give me an hour. Then you can fly me home.”

                “Promise?”

                Bruce looked at his friend through narrowed eyes, “Promise.”

 

**November 1 st, 2020**

**3:30 am**

 

                Bruce was snoring so loudly he woke himself with a start then grumpily crawled out of the mess of covers and pillows because he had to pee. With the amount of ‘fluids’ Alfred had been pushing since the moment he’d walked in the door, it was no surprise. The floors were cold on his bare feet and his head throbbed steadily to the pattern of his steps.

                He staggered into the bathroom, flipped on the lights then winced at his stupidity and abruptly turned them back off.

                He managed in the dark just fine by feel. Finished, head still throbbing, Bruce padded out of his room and headed down the stairs to find the meds he’d left by the kitchen sink.

                The house was silent, save the subtle ticking of clocks and the soft snores from Tim or Damian. He couldn’t tell which past the stuffing in his ears. Which might have explained why he paid hardly any attention to his surroundings. Like an actual zombie, Bruce didn’t notice when something moved in the family room and followed him into the kitchen.

                When he didn’t flip on any lights, Bruce didn’t think anything of it. He didn’t want a repeat of the bathroom incident. And he was in a sort of hazy narrow-eyed focus anyways. Drugs. Water. Back to sleep.

                Maybe a few crackers in case the pills hit his stomach like a rock. He didn’t want to feel nauseas on top of everything else.

                He took the pills with half-closed eyes, blearily put the empty glass in the sink then turned for the pantry and hit a solid wall of muscle.

                There _could_ possibly, _maybe_ have been a nasally squeak that made it past his lips, but he’d argue it to the death. “Jesus Christ!”

                “Sorry!” Clark’s voice murmured in the space between them as two big hands steadied Bruce from toppling over. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

                Flushing, though the darkness should have kept that a secret, Bruce slapped at Clark’s hands then stepped back to catch his breath at the sink. “What were you doing sneaking up on me like that?”

                “You were walking around in the dark. I was worried.”

                Bruce snorted, then regretted it at the snap of pain. He settled for pinching the bridge of his nose. The pressure felt better. “The light hurts my head.”

                “Oh.”

                Officially awake, Bruce trudged over to the bank of light switches on the kitchen wall and turned on the dimmer switch to low. The lights above the island glowed a dull orange. Enough to see, not enough to cause that steady thumping in his skull to climb.

                “Clark,” Bruce squinted, “Why are you still here?”

                “Um,” Clark stammered now, looking embarrassed, “the boys asked me to stay. Since it was Halloween. We stayed up late and watched movies.”

                Bruce smirked, “Did Tim hold your hand?”

                Clark chuckled, “Yeah.”

                “Poor kid.”

                “Damian egged him on. I probably should have stopped it. But—”

                “Right of passage. Good for him.”

                “Yeah.”

                Bruce sighed, blinking sluggishly around the kitchen. “I just needed more meds. My head is killing me.”

                “Did you get them?”

                “Yeah. But I need something to eat. I don’t want an upset stomach. Want some toast?”

                Clark shrugged, “Sure. Let me make it. You’re weaving on your feet. Go sit.”

                Bruce obeyed and silently took a seat at the island. He watched Clark go about the kitchen making toast, heating water for tea that he hadn’t asked for, but would be happy to drink, then settled beside him. When they’d both eaten a couple slices of buttery bread and Bruce had drank nearly all of his tea, Clark moved to stand.

                “You need more sleep.”

                Bruce blinked up at Clark but didn’t even have the energy to scowl. It should have been telling with how sick he really was.

                “Need help?”

                “I’m not an invalid,” Bruce snapped, though he had to stop several times on the way up the stairs and Clark worriedly hovered as if he was going to fall. Which of course he didn’t. Bruce wasn’t that far gone. Though he didn’t land in bed with any sort of grace and it was more of a fall than it was a sit.

                “I hate being sick.”

                “You and everyone else.”

                Bruce hummed, slipping back into the center of his bed where he’d left an empty cocoon. “Why don’t you sleep in your guest room?”

                “My guest room?” Clark asked, amusement crinkling his eyes at the corners. “It’s only for me?”

                Bruce huffed, “Who else?”

                “I don’t know. Need anything else?”

                “I’m—“Bruce hesitated, looking around the room and into all the blackness. It was strangely quiet. No consistent pattering sound, “It stopped raining.”

                Clark looked over to the windows and smiled, “Yes, it did.”

                “I miss it already.”

                Clark laughed, “Of course you do. Go to sleep Bruce.”

                Bruce didn’t say anything back, but he did nestle in deeper into the warmth of his bed. He didn’t hear Clark walk out or the soft snitch of the door shutting. He was already too far gone. Sick or not, it was the first Halloween he’d ever had so much peace and quiet.

                He fell into a deep NyQuil induced sleep and dreamed of rain-drenched skies.  


End file.
